


if i'm a fresh struck match (you're a gust of wind)

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Aftercare, Banter, Implied Sexual Content, Just a bit! Kind of weird but there., Light Bondage, Light Sadism, M/M, Massage, Mild Sexual Content, The ""aftercare"" is longer than the porny bit lawl., Yeah I hate the tags too.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: Crocodile doesn’t flinch under the delicate attention, eyes barely fluttering with the searing lines of pain cutting across the length of thread which loops from his wrists to his shoulders, pulling his arms straight and flush to his side, bent at the elbows and fingers curling beautifully into open air. The severe line of his mouth remains slack, neutral, even as Doflamingo trails a thumb (wet enough with the puppeteer’s own saliva to leave damp cold in its wake, salt in the wound) from the joint of his jaw to the hollow of his throat, hand cradling insistently as he does so.
Relationships: Crocodile/Donquixote Doflamingo
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	if i'm a fresh struck match (you're a gust of wind)

Crocodile doesn’t flinch under the delicate attention, eyes barely fluttering with the searing lines of pain cutting across the length of thread which loops from his wrists to his shoulders, pulling his arms straight and flush to his side, bent at the elbows and fingers curling beautifully into open air. The severe line of his mouth remains slack, neutral, even as Doflamingo trails a thumb (wet enough with the puppeteer’s own saliva to leave damp cold in its wake, salt in the wound) from the joint of his jaw to the hollow of his throat, hand cradling insistently as he does so. 

“Oh, I’ve got something for you,” Doflamingo snaps with a breathy laugh, keratin shredding skin with the quick motion, a line of thread collaring the older with enough speed to make his head snap to the side. Crocodile’s mouth stays yet impassive, and it sends the thrill of challenge through Donquixote’s body, sharp and hot, settling somewhere deep in his gut. It throbs again as Crocodile slowly, intently, raises his eyes to meet their lids, stares up at Doflamingo from under them with an air of mild irritation. Oh,  _ exquisite! _ The younger warlord can’t hold back at that, the quick clasping of his hands and movement to draw them to his cheek in a gesture of adoration drawing beads of blood to criss-cross Crocodile’s bound form and eliciting a quiet groan from him. He nuzzles into his own wrists like a schoolgirl cooing over a puppy, skin soft when it passes over the gape of his face, the wolfish grin which devours any other impression of the man, leaving no room for anything but his hungry, delighted maw.

“You’re some real special stuff, Croco-man. Annoyed at me, when I’ve got you like this! Boy, am I lucky!” His glee is genuine, laughter interspersed with soft, adoring giggles, but the lilting tone makes the thread at Doflamingo’s fingers tighten just enough to make the skin go white, the other man’s posture strung tight with irritation. Doflamingo ducks behind him, keeping the wire slack as he turns to watch the nervous roll of the older man’s wrists, flipping his hands over themselves in his confines, giggling all the while. 

“Lean back for me, baby,” He’s cooing, standing behind Crocodile with both his hands on the older man’s shoulders and pushing him back so he can watch the flex of his abdomen, tight and firm with the strain, his face pulled into a grimace (teeth, straight and white, glistening with a thin film of saliva, and gaze hot). He leans down, bent at the hips to bring his face to Crocodile’s so their eyes are level with each others throats, licking over that row of perfect teeth and closing his frown with the press of his lips, pulling his lip between his teeth and reveling in the hard swallow the older warlord takes. 

“Don’t bore me.” 

* * *

Even in his recline, Crocodile is august, lids low to express passive disinterest and beyond it, exhaustion. He rolls to bare his neck, not a tell of submission, but a commanding ease, rolls his shoulders back into the couch, still wound tight, even with puppeteer’s fingers digging into the coiled muscle of his calves, lacerations being pressed cruelly with every tender working over. 

“I don’t know why I humor you.” Donquixote trills absently in response, fucked out, happy to run his fingers over the splits in the older’s skin, to smear blood and further stake his claim. His hands are soaked in oil, warm and rich with something barely floral, working deep into muscle and pooling with the sweat that's already gathered over his skin, stinging in the wounds as a subtle reminder of their play. He surges up, kisses him with slick hands clenching around the meat of his bicep, swears he can feel a softening until a thumb digs into his jaw, biting the soft flesh of his cheek into the bone beneath with pressure. He holds him like this momentarily, too close to allow the blonde to see his eyes, simply exchanging air, while Crocodile’s proximity makes him miss the soft smile that graces his lips, straining against the grip to lay it over Crocodile instead, let him  _ feel _ the gentle upturn. He feels a sigh, hot air against his lips, and then a growl, the slight flare of nostrils, as he reaches up to dig nails into Crocodile's arms, the scant space between their mouths smoky and thick with tension. 

"Get me a cigar, would you?" he breathes it against him, slackening his grip, and it makes Doflamingo laugh properly, cackling as he pulls away with a little swipe of his tongue to the older's receding finger (he doesn't miss the almost-but-not-quite-fond grimace he's returned). Cogs click back into place with the sharp, obnoxious sound, and his hands find themselves wanting for something more than the steady grinding of muscle and working of knots, so he rises. From his newfound vantage, the roll of the older warlord’s shoulders, the way the velvet goes dark around his weight is positively luxurious, the sight of it sends the thrill of servitude through the warlord. But--ah,  _ there _ \-- his legs draw up just a bit as Doflamingo’s heels click hard against marble in his parting, calves going tight as he twitches to pull himself in: vulnerability. The blonde arches his back in excitement, sweeps his fingers from his thighs to the jut of bone defining his ribs, giving his arms a long stretch heavenwards (he grins at the  _ crack! _ of his elbows), claws primed to dig into the fresh meat he’s been presented, pry at the chitin of Crocodile’s composure until it unfurls into bloodied flesh with a delicate violence. 

But the night is long, and his lover has a cigar to smoke. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ough, I'm only happy with some parts of this. I wrote most of this mid-day, at reasonable times, and that's when I do my worst work, lol.  
> This draft's been around for a while, my hands are apparently only letting me finish the real dumb stuff instead of that goddamn. triple-parter I started posting for Marco. Auugh.
> 
> Anyway, uh, my porny stuff seems to get more comments, but to incentivize; please leave me a review or sumfink. Really appreciate that stuff!
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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